


That Ridiculous Dress

by sporkmetender



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Infidelity, Romance, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:12:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1915737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporkmetender/pseuds/sporkmetender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severely AU. Andy gets a job at the Mirror right away instead of working at Runway. Miranda is, however, an unavoidable presence on the New York publishing scene, and they cross paths rather dramatically after an awards dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sgt_lezwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sgt_lezwolf).



> Please note that the various awards dinners/banquets/etc. in this story are entirely fabricated and thus left deliberately vague. I know very little about the fashion industry and even less about New York City society events, so a fair amount of speculation was needed to bolster the Internet research I did. I apologize for any resulting inaccuracies. 
> 
> This was originally written for the 2008 DWP Secret Santa exchange and originally posted on LJ in January of 2009.

Andy pried her eyes open long enough to glare at the ringing phone, punched “ignore,” and promptly went back to sleep. When the phone rang again two minutes later, she glared a little harder and hit “ignore” a little more vigorously. When it rang a third time, she cursed, turned it off, and threw it across the room. Claire would give up eventually. If it was something really important, she would show up at the door, use her key, and drag Andy bodily out of bed. But Andy knew there was only a tiny likelihood of something important happening in the publishing world late on a Saturday night, and she was determined to enjoy her first Sunday off in what felt like forever.

It was probably an article falling through at the last minute, Andy decided sleepily. It was very late indeed to be pulling an article intended for next month’s issue…the layout was probably already finalized, for one thing. But Andy trusted Claire to submit articles and negotiate with editors for her. “Time to earn your commission, Claire,” she said to her empty room, and went back to sleep.

It was only when she was checking her e-mail on Monday morning that she realized exactly why she should have taken the call, despite the lateness of the hour. She lunged for the phone.

“Tell me you didn’t,” she demanded, before Claire had time to get out more than an introductory ‘hey.’ “ _Please_ tell me you did not submit the article on body image to _Runway_.”

There was a sound of muffled voices on the other end, then the noise of a closing door. Claire let out a rather gusty sigh—she did tend towards the dramatic on occasion—and said nothing. The silence told Andy everything she needed to know.

Andy pinched the bridge of her nose and resisted the urge to yell. “Claire, have we or have we not had this conversation at least four times since I hired you?”

Claire made a noise that sounded a little bit like a muffled “yes.” Or maybe a whimper. Andy sniffed as haughtily as she could manage, mostly because she knew it would annoy Claire enough to get her talking.

“Really, Andy, I don’t see what the big deal is. So you two had words at some charity event. So what? She obviously doesn’t hate you as much as you think, or she wouldn’t have agreed to put your article in the February issue of _Runway_. As a matter of fact, I think—“

Andy cut her off with a rather choked-sounding laugh. “Claire,” she started, and was forced to clear her throat against a sudden lump of terror. “Claire, surely after spending this long as an agent you’ve learned how to tell when people are not telling you the whole story.”

“Andy, are you telling me that our professional relationship was founded on a lie?”

Andy opened her mouth to make a denial, but Claire was hard to stop once she got going.

“Also, why is your voice so shaky? This is a _good_ thing. She doesn’t hate you, and now people will finally stop gossiping about the fact that a prominent fashion writer has yet to be published in American _Runway_.”

“Okay, first of all, I’ve only been on the scene for five years and writing about fashion for four. That hardly makes me ‘prominent.’ Secondly, our professional relationship was _not_ founded on a lie. I told you a single white lie because I knew I had to give you a reason why I didn’t want to submit anything to _Runway_ and the truth was too embarrassing. Not to mention scandalous. And thirdly…”Andy’s voice dropped from near-yell to a venomous whisper, “…please tell me I did _not_ hear you say that my article is going to be in the February issue of _Runway_.”

Claire, who was rather nosy at the best of times, was by this point ready to reach through the phone and shake the answers out of her favorite client. “Andy. Seriously, you need to calm down. You’re sounding panicky. Just tell me what really happened with Miranda and I’ll smooth everything over. And yes, before you ask again, your article will be in the January issue. I’ve already given the okay. You just have to cut it down to 1800 words and I’ll send it off. They pay quite well, you know.”

Andy was silent for several long seconds.

“Claire, I need you to swear, on your entire family’s burial plot, that what I am about to tell you goes no further. I mean it. If I hear so much as a whisper on the gossip circuit, you are so fired. And I will never speak to you again.”

“Fine. I solemnly swear on the Kingsley family plot that I will never reveal to another living soul the secrets I am about to hear. Would you just tell me already?”

Andy took a deep breath. _Like ripping off a Band-Aid, Sachs. Just get it over with as quickly as possible._ “We didn’t just ‘have words’ at an awards dinner. We, uh, kindofhadsexinthebathroom.”

Claire pulled the phone away from her head, wiped the earpiece vigorously with her sleeve, and then slowly returned the receiver to her ear.

“I’m sorry. Could you repeat that, a little slower this time? I could have sworn I heard you say that you had sex with Miranda Priestly in the bathroom at an awards dinner.”

“Claire…that _is_ what I said.”

“Oh.”

Since that was, apparently, the limit of Claire’s current vocabulary, Andy figured she might as well take the opportunity to get a few words in while she had the chance.

“And this, Claire, is exactly why I didn’t tell you. Even aside from the fact that I can barely believe it myself.” Andy pinched the bridge of her nose a little harder. “Now she probably thinks I’m trying to blackmail her or something. Fantastic.”


	2. The Bathroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: sex without explicit verbal consent (still consensual, though).

_Four and a half years earlier_

Andy shook her head in disbelief that she was actually attending such a pretentious event and resisted, for at least the fifth time, the temptation to mess with her hair. It was currently piled on top of her head in an artfully messy arrangement that Billie had assured her would look perfect with the weird shiny dress that Andy was trying not to breathe too hard in and the sleek, uncomfortable heels that she was already starting to despise.

Even a casual glance at the other attendees was enough to make it painfully obvious that she was out of her depth, and she silently vowed that Mike _and_ Billie would pay for every second of toe-pinching agony she endured tonight. She felt like a total impostor in her borrowed finery, and she just _knew_ that the other guests were quietly mocking her behind their exquisitely moisturized, callus-free hands. It didn’t help that her dress was much shorter than she was used to and very different from the dresses of most of the other women present, but it was the only one Billie had that Andy had been able to get into, so it would have to do.

Andy spent most of the cocktail hour sipping a gin and tonic and clutching convulsively at her oddly shaped designer bag. Her first attempt at striking up a conversation went rather poorly, and the next was even worse, even though she was careful to be polite and her cheeks felt sore from smiling. Everyone seemed to remember someone else they just had to speak to about thirty seconds after Andy introduced herself. _It has to be the dress,_ she decided glumly, as she propped up the most deserted stretch of wall available. _Billie is SO dead._

How on earth did all five hundred of these fashion-Nazis know each other, anyway? Supposedly they were all in journalism or publishing, but Andy found it hard to believe. There certainly weren’t any people rich enough to dress like this working at _her_ newspaper. Billie must have jumped through some impressive hoops to get the ticket, she suddenly realized. Normal _Mirror_ reporters like Andy wouldn’t have had a prayer of getting in, but apparently Billie still had friends over at _Harper’s Bazaar_ who had been willing to pull some strings for her. And she hadn’t even gotten to use the ticket. _Serves her right for getting pregnant like this,_ Andy thought uncharitably as she checked her watch for the fourth time.

Andy couldn’t decide whether she was more furious with Billie for being so inconsiderate as to get pregnant and force Andy to attend in her place, or with her editor for backing Billie up and pointing out all the useful networking (and information-gathering) she could do. _They should have known I’d never make it in this crowd_ , Andy thought. _It’s like a different world. God I hate these shoes._

She felt slightly more at ease when they were ushered into the dining room. She found the little place card with Billie’s name on it at a table tucked into the corner of the cavernous meeting room furthest from the podium. _At least I can keep my back to the wall_ , she caught herself thinking, as if she were a spy, or a kidnapping victim. She forced the uncomfortably accurate image from her mind and turned in her chair to return the exuberant greeting of the most flamingly gay man she had ever met in her life.

They exchanged employer information—Andy was unsurprised to recognize the name of one of the more sensationalist gossip rags—while Andy tried very hard not to stare at his bright purple dress-shirt and asymmetrical hair. He expressed what Andy considered to be excessive (and obviously insincere) admiration for her uncomfortable silvery-gray dress and inquired regarding its provenance, whereupon Andy was forced to admit that she couldn’t recall the name of the designer. He regarded her with the sort of disgust typically reserved for a victim in the final stages of leprosy and turned away to bestow his attention on the more deserving beauty advice columnist on his other side. He did not so much as glance at Andy the rest of the evening.

Andy held in a sigh (barely), and resolved to sneak into the bathroom at the earliest possible opportunity and memorize the name on the label of her dress. She turned, with a certain amount of trepidation, to look at the corpulent and distinctly grumpy man on her other side, who was avoiding eye contact with the entire table while he dispassionately shredded an impressive stack of cocktail napkins.

Andy resigned herself to a long, boring evening.

She spent the rest of the meal silently inventing increasingly creative curses for unexpectedly pregnant coworkers while the incomprehensible fashion-related conversation flowed between her table-mates. She had used all the Britishisms she knew by the end of the main course and all the college French she could remember by the beginning of dessert—which she  and Grumpy seemed to be the only ones eating, even though it was delicious. _These people are crazy_.

After dinner came the awards and speeches, of course, before she could even make it to the bathroom, which she needed for more than just label-checking after the rather imprudent amount of wine she’d consumed with dinner (plus the gin and tonic from earlier). A handful of awards were given out to some suspiciously well-dressed young people, and then came the speeches. She did make an honest effort to pay attention to the speeches—really, she did—but the combination of a full bladder and a total lack of recognition of the names dropped faux-casually by almost every speaker soon had her struggling not to squirm in her chair. She clapped half-heartedly when everyone else did; that seemed to be all that was required of her, since there were constant side-conversations going on the whole time.

How an event to give awards to budding journalistic endeavors (i.e. starving young journalists and writers) could turn into this three-ring circus of snobbery, Andy would never understand.

Just as Andy was getting ready to make a break for the bathroom, decorum be damned, something extraordinary happened. The current speaker, a nice-looking old man with an impenetrable accent, gave way to the next one, and every head swiveled instantly toward the podium. Applause—some of it fairly hearty-sounding—filled the room. Even some of the _women_ clapped. Andy could only gape.

The woman who rose to speak was, even to Andy’s inexperienced eyes, easily the most elegant person present. Her hair gleamed a shocking, unapologetic white in a room filled with women who clung, with more tenacity than believability, to the illusion of youth. She also had an exquisitely trained voice. The entire room, including Andy, leaned forward to catch every word of her short, quiet speech. Even as Andy stared at the spellbound faces of her dining companions, she had to admire the woman’s style. She really didn’t say much that hadn’t already been said—but she was so poised, her delivery so perfect, that Andy found herself surprisingly disappointed when the woman stopped talking.

This stunning performance had obviously been anticipated, as the last speaker came to the podium directly afterwards and, forced to speak over the increasingly loud conversations among the guests, wrapped up with almost unseemly haste.

Free at last! Andy jumped up and made her way to the bathroom. Unfortunately, about two thirds of the other guests had the same idea, and Andy was severely handicapped by the distance of her table from the main door. By the time she made it past all the stylishly garbed roadblocks in her path, the line for the only women’s restroom in sight stretched out the door and several dozen feet down the hall.

Andy reluctantly joined the slow-moving queue and tried very hard not to squeeze her legs together too obviously. Because god apparently hated her today, the woman in front of her chose that moment to strike up a conversation with an acquaintance about some avant-garde art exhibit consisting solely of a rain machine, a tin roof, and a bathtub. Her imitation of the resulting dripping noise was absolutely the last straw. Andy shot the woman a disbelieving look and hurried off, thighs firmly clamped together, to look for a bathroom a bit further off the beaten track.

Five torturous minutes later, she finally came across a small ladies’ room tucked into an unlikely corner on the other side of a huge (and stylishly hideous) potted plant. Andy sent up a quick prayer of thanksgiving and made a mad dash for the closer of the two stalls.

She had just flushed the toilet when she heard the bathroom door swing open. There was a slight pause, as if the other woman had expected to find the room empty, and then the slow, measured click of heels heading for the sink. Andy caught the quiet snick of a clasp, and then the familiar sounds of makeup being touched up.

Andy decided she might as well check the dress-label, but it turned out to be a trickier operation than she had anticipated, especially after almost a whole bottle of wine. She found that she could not reach the zipper without contorting herself in ways that might be hazardous to the integrity of the dress. It had been fitted to Billie, after all, who—when she was not four months pregnant and retaining fluid like crazy—was a bit slimmer than Andy, especially in the chest and shoulders. Andy banged her head (very gently, so as not to destroy her hair and makeup) on the stall door. She knew that she needed to chat up at least a few important people before she left. It was an invaluable opportunity, and she _was_ a journalist. Plus, they were probably a little friendlier now, after all that wine. Inability to name the designer of her dress could easily be the kiss of death in this crowd, though. What to do? She couldn’t call Billie at this hour—she’d been going to bed early these days, and her phone would definitely be turned off.

A quiet rustle from the sink area gave her an idea. “Excuse me,” she started.

Silence. She could almost feel disapproval radiating through the door.

“Um, I can’t remember who designed my dress, and I’m trying to read the label, but someone else got me into it earlier, and I can’t reach the zipper. I was wondering if you could read the label for me?” She pushed the door open and stumbled out— _damn these stupid heels—_ only to come face to face with the gorgeous white-haired woman who had spoken so rivetingly during the benefit. She was currently wearing the most terrifying expression Andy had ever seen on a human face. Andy swallowed and took an involuntary half-step backward.

“You are wearing,” the woman said, in her preternaturally quiet voice, “a rather lackluster piece from Burberry’s Spring collection, which was obviously fitted to someone smaller than you.” She pursed her lips. “It is also completely inappropriate for this event,” _I knew it!_ ”…and very ill-suited to your figure and complexion. Might one safely presume that the same benighted individual who loaned you the dress is also responsible for your hair and those tedious silver accessories? The Dolce bag is slightly less garish than the rest of your ensemble, I suppose. Those shoes, though—Moschino, aren’t they?—are worse than useless if you cannot walk in them properly.”

This astonishing speech was obviously intended to render Andy incapable of brain activity long enough for the mystery woman to make her getaway—she was in the act of closing her improbably blue bag as she spoke. It almost succeeded, but Andy’s curiosity (and maybe the wine) got the better of her, and she spoke up before really considering the consequences.

“Who _are_ you? How do you know all that just from looking at my outfit? And where do you get off calling my friend’s dress lackluster, anyway?” It occurred to Andy, as the woman’s eyes widened dramatically, that it would have been a good idea to ask someone at her table who the woman was _before_ accosting her in a hotel bathroom. She was bound to be someone important in publishing, after all, or she wouldn’t have been the next-to-last speaker.

Fortunately, she had a sense of humor, or so Andy assumed from the slight but perceptible relaxation of the Death Glare. Her lips had unpursed, at least, and her startling blue eyes had a bit more warmth in them than they had had a second earlier. Andy thought she might even have seen one corner of her mouth twitch upward, as if she wanted to laugh.

“I work in Fashion.” Andy could hear the capital letter, and the unspoken ‘obviously’ just from the way she said it. “That is how I know. As for who I am, if you really don’t know, you may call me…M,” she said regally, rather as if she expected Andy to curtsy or kiss her hand.

Andy stared at her for a moment, but her curiosity got the better of her once again. “Okay, er, M. How did you know all that about the dress and the shoes and everything? I mean, surely _everyone_ who ‘works in fashion’ can’t identify clothes just by looking at them.”

She was almost sure that M’s mouth quirked upward a little that time, but her voice was perfectly serious. “Not everyone, no.”

Andy had the distinctly unpleasant feeling that she was being toyed with, but hey, at least there were no witnesses, right?

“So, if not everyone can do it, how did _you_ do it? How would someone learn?”

There was definitely a twitch that time…Andy would swear to it. “Read _Runway_.”

“Why _Runway_?” Andy wanted to know. “Why not _Elle_ or _Harper’s Bazaar_ or…”  The thunderous expression was back, and the Death Glare couldn’t be far behind. Andy mentally slapped her forehead and hastened to correct her mistake. “Of course! You work for _Runway_ , right? That’s why you were a speaker at the benefit tonight. That’s how you know about fashion.”

“Correct,” she said, with a disdainful sniff. “If you truly wish to know about Fashion, _Runway_ should be your Bible. Read every issue cover to cover for twenty years, and perhaps you, too will be able to identify clothing with a glance.” Her tone of voice indicated that she found this eventuality vanishingly unlikely.

“ _Runway_ would tell you, for example, _never_ to wear a sports bra with a designer dress, even such a mediocre one as your friend was… _kind_ enough to lend you.”

Andy simultaneously bristled and blushed under M’s renewed scrutiny.

“Turn,” Miranda said, making a little circular motion with one index finger.

“What?”

“Turn around, foolish girl. I have to see the back as well.”

Andy turned, smarting under the woman’s scornful tone, but too dazed to respond.

“Surely any friend of yours sensible enough to own a Dolce bag could have advised you against panty lines.”

Andy felt her entire head and torso turn a fiery shade of red and wished fervently for a convenient trapdoor. Or maybe an act of god.

“Ah. I take it she did. Hmm. That dress really does not suit you at all. Turn and face the door.”

Andy turned again, still fighting down her blush, and faced the door, feeling rather like a life-sized Midwest Barbie.

M made a sort of tsking noise and tilted her head to one side. “Off,” she said.

Andy shook her head a little. She was sure M could not have just ordered her to—

“I don’t have all night, silly girl. For the last time, take off that ridiculous dress. I need to see what I’m working with.”

Andy turned to look at her, sure that she must be joking. She wasn’t. She was, in fact, looking increasingly impatient. As if in a dream, Andy heard herself say, “But the zipper…” and before she knew what was happening, there was the faintest brush of baby-soft skin against her back, and the sound of a zipper, and suddenly she could fill her lungs completely for the first time in over four hours.

“Strip,” M said.

“But what if someone comes in?” Andy managed, rather weakly, praying that she would wake up any second now.

M glared impatiently, took two steps toward the door, and flipped the lock.

 _What kind of hotel has locking bathrooms with more than one stall?_ Andy wondered, as she slipped out of the dress and draped it gently over the divider. Now that M had remarked on it, it did look a little boring. And what was with that little gold belt-thingy, anyway? Weird.

M made that tsking noise again. “Hanes. I might have guessed.”

Andy was suddenly acutely aware that she hadn’t bought new underwear in well over a year. And it had never been spectacular to begin with. _I can’t even remember the last time I blushed this much,_ she thought, even as she turned automatically to give M the full view…such as it was. She glanced up just in time to see the mysterious fashion guru beckoning impatiently.

“For heaven’s sake, girl, remove that revolting bra. It ruins your bust line.”

Andy knew, by this point, that M was not joking. Crazy, perhaps, or maybe a hypnotist of some sort—she really did have a beautiful voice, if you could ignore the actual words—but she did not joke.

Andy had a growing suspicion that there were probably other women—perhaps a great many other women—who would kill for the opportunity to undress in front of M and be critiqued. Who was she, fresh-out-of-college Andy Sachs, to turn up her nose? Maybe she could pacify the woman by submitting to her judgment. Still, a lifetime of modesty was hard to overcome. She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and pulled the faded sports bra off in one (almost) smooth motion. It was incredibly hard not to immediately hunch over and cover herself.

It was even harder when she heard a slightly throaty sound of approval from M’s general direction. _It will all be over soon_ , she told herself. _Just let her finish shredding your ego and you can go home._

“Much better,” M said. “Perhaps not quite as fat as I initially thought.” And then, even though it was quite a small bathroom anyway, she took two steps forward, so that they were less than an arm’s length apart.

Andy, who had been attempting to distract herself with the inevitable insipid painting next to the sink, risked a quick look in M’s direction and promptly froze. The woman was finally smiling. But it was not a kind, reassuring smile. Nor was she making eye contact. Instead, she was smiling—rather hungrily, Andy couldn’t help thinking—directly at Andy’s chest. Andy had just opened her mouth to protest this rather obvious ogling when she was shocked into silence again by a hand covering her right breast. A very warm hand, with very smooth skin, which had no business being anywhere near her naked breast.

She stumbled backwards a step, but instead of backing off, M grabbed Andy’s left hip with her other hand and pushed her firmly against the now-closed stall door. Andy’s jaw dropped.

“M, what…? I mean, I don’t think…I’m not…”

“Call me Miranda,” she said, with another predatory smile, and kissed her. Since Andy’s mouth was still open, it ended up being a French kiss. A very long, very wet French kiss, which left Andy too stunned and breathless to say much of anything to Miranda. Another kiss followed, and another and another, until Andy totally forgot that she was in a public bathroom in a hotel with a frightening and beautiful female stranger at least twenty years her senior.

She did not, however, forget that she was almost completely naked and Miranda still fully clothed. The steel door was cold on her exposed back, and the contrast with the warm silk of Miranda’s dress and the hot mouth against her neck was sending delicious shivers up and down her spine.

Miranda was, apparently, a very single-minded individual. Her entire being was focused on Andy’s body. Andy tried, and failed, to remember a time when she’d gotten this wet just from kissing someone. She thought dimly that she should probably be alarmed, or at least angry, but Miranda was doing something really wonderful to Andy’s nipples, and her tongue and teeth were tracing abstract designs on Andy’s left ear and down her neck.

Andy felt faintly ridiculous standing there with her hands by her sides, one of them still clutching her bra, but she wasn’t quite sure what else to do with them. Miranda was obviously firmly in charge of the situation. Perhaps she preferred to just give orders. _I’ll bet she does_ , Andy thought. _What a control freak. Well, fuck that. If I’m going to cheat on my boyfriend, I might as well be thorough about it._ And with that decided, she wrapped both arms around Miranda and reached for her zipper.

Miranda responded with a noise that might have been a purr, except that her mouth was currently wrapped around Andy’s nipple, so it actually came out as more of a tingly hum. Andy moaned, eyes closed, and tugged impatiently at Miranda’s dress. She had never been this wet, this achy, she was sure of it. And then Miranda’s mouth retreated from her nipple and she was suddenly bereft of warmth.

She made a rather strangled sound of protest and opened her eyes, but Miranda had removed her dress and was already stepping closer again. Miranda shoved her unceremoniously back against the door, forcing Andy’s legs apart and wedging her own thigh firmly between them. Her _naked_ thigh.

Andy could not stop staring at the woman’s cleavage. “Wow!” she said, with a great deal of sincerity. And then, because it bore repeating, “Wow!” again. No one with white hair had any business looking that good in lacy black underwear. It was just unfair. “Your skin is amazing,” she said.

Miranda just smiled. “It feels even better,” she said.

“ _Fuck._ ” Andy gasped, as Miranda began a gentle grinding motion with her hips that rubbed Andy’s underwear against her swollen clit.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Miranda said, and she stepped back just long enough to rip Andy’s underpants down past her knees. Andy whimpered a little at the rush of cold air, but the combination of two fingers suddenly thrust all the way into her cunt and another full-contact body-slam against the door drove all the breath from her lungs. _I am so going to have bruises tomorrow_ , she thought, as she raked all ten newly-manicured fingernails down Miranda’s back in payment. The resulting hiss was music to her ears.

Not to be outdone, Miranda added a third finger to the two already moving forcefully in and out of Andy’s cunt and pinched Andy’s left nipple so hard she shrieked. Miranda just smirked and pinched even harder.

 _I should not be enjoying this,_ Andy thought, as she tugged Miranda’s bra down and twisted both of Miranda’s nipples right back. 

Miranda was obviously enjoying herself too—her breathing was heavier, and her chest was flushing a lovely shade of pink. “Harder,” she demanded, and shoved a fourth finger inside Andy’s dripping cunt.

Andy bit Miranda’s earlobe and obeyed, trying desperately to remain upright on her increasingly shaky legs. She had never been stretched so thoroughly before, and it felt amazing—almost too amazing. Andy was astonished to feel herself starting to clamp down on Miranda’s fingers. She was _not_ going to come three minutes in like a teenage boy, dammit. Or if she was, she was going to take Miranda with her. It was time for a change in tactics.

“You want it harder?” she asked, a bit breathlessly, forcing her legs to hold her up a little more firmly. “Are you sure about that, Miranda?”

“I am always sure,” Miranda said smugly, and pinched Andy’s other nipple.

“Good,” Andy said, and shoved at Miranda’s shoulders—hard. She seized Miranda’s moment of shock to pull away and switch their positions. And she didn’t feel a bit guilty at the whoosh of air forced out of Miranda’s lungs when her back hit the door. “Fair’s fair,” she reminded her as she yanked the other woman’s underwear down and ground the heel of her hand firmly against Miranda’s throbbing clit.

“Indeed,” Miranda said, as she raked her nails down Andy’s back with a nasty little grin.

Andy grinned right back—and shoved three fingers in as far as they would go. “I may be fat,” she whispered into Miranda’s ear, with a nip for emphasis, “and I may be clueless about fashion.” Miranda snorted and gave Andy’s hair a vicious tug. Andy bit down a little harder and added another finger. “But you’re still soaking wet,” she latched onto a nipple with her other hand and started twisting, “and I’m still fucking your brains out in a hotel bathroom.” She gave a particularly hard thrust and pressed her thumb against Miranda’s clit.

Miranda moaned and turned her head just as Andy was leaning in to kiss the sensitive area behind Miranda’s ear, and she ended up kissing the corner of Miranda’s mouth instead. Miranda tangled her hands more securely in Andy’s hair and pulled her around until they were kissing in earnest, with Miranda moaning into Andy’s mouth and Andy grinding urgently against Miranda’s thigh in time with her rapidly thrusting hand. One of Miranda’s hands suddenly dropped from Andy’s hair to her hip, and Andy groaned her approval as Miranda’s leg pressed firmly upwards.

“Fuck,” Andy said, reaching down with her free hand to rub franticly at her aching clit. “Fuck, Miranda. I’m so close.”

“No self-control,” Miranda whispered, even as she pulled Andy closer and rolled her hips. “Just as I suspected.” She licked Andy’s earlobe. “You’re going to come, aren’t you? You’re going to come all over my leg.”

“Yes,” Andy hissed. “I’m going to come all over your leg, Miranda. And you’re coming with me.” Andy curled her fingers up and pressed, hard, on Miranda’s G-spot.

Miranda’s eyes widened. “Fuck!” she said, to Andy’s lasting delight, and came all over Andy’s hand.

Andy’s entire body stiffened at the first pulse of Miranda’s cunt around her fingers, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste blood as she exploded all over Miranda’s thigh.

 

 

They clung to one another, more for stability than out of any sort of tenderness, until the aftershocks had subsided. Miranda moved away first, naturally.

It was awkward, Andy discovered, getting dressed again in complete silence after twenty minutes of passionately antagonistic sex with a complete stranger. She felt sticky and unkempt as she struggled back into her dress, and very shy. She also felt, despite the incredible orgasm not five minutes earlier, like she kind of wanted to do it all over again. Miranda had an amazing body for a woman her age—for a woman of any age, really. And that voice….

“Zip me,” Miranda said, presenting her back to Andy.

Andy jumped, but she zipped as requested. She bit her lip, wincing as it began bleeding again, and took her courage in both hands. “Me too?” she requested, in a small voice, and turned halfway, looking hopefully in Miranda’s direction. Miranda executed a graceful turn and closed the zipper in one smooth movement.

Miranda was already reapplying her makeup with an expert hand when Andy joined her at the sink, fumbling with the unfamiliar purse. Miranda was done with both hair and makeup before Andy had gone much further than a rather ham-handed application of concealer to the sizable hickey on her neck and was watching Andy’s lack of progress with growing annoyance.

“For heaven’s sake,” she said finally, and snatched the whole bag out of Andy’s hand. “You’ll never be done at that rate.” She then proceeded to do a better job on Andy’s makeup in four minutes than Billie had achieved in forty-five. Andy could only stand there, stunned, and watch the transformation in the mirror out of the corner of one eye.

Andy leaned away reflexively as Miranda’s empty hands reached for her head, but it was only to undo the pins holding her hair in place. Andy watched Miranda’s intensely focused face in the mirror as she ran her hands through Andy’s hair with surprising gentleness. She would have protested when Miranda began to deliberately muss it…if she hadn’t glanced at herself in the mirror first. She didn’t usually wear her hair down—it was too much work—but it looked good. Really good.

Miranda gave her a quick head-to-toe inspection. “Passable,” she said, quite as if she had not just worked several miracles with Andy’s appearance in less than ten minutes, and turned to get something out of her purse. The something turned out to be a cell phone. She punched a few numbers, told whoever answered to be out front in five minutes, and hung up. She turned to Andy. “I suppose you have a card?”

Andy stared at her for a moment, and then it hit her: _I never introduced myself. She doesn’t even know my name._ She opened the stupid gold bag with shaky fingers and handed over one of her business cards.

Miranda took it, glanced at her name, and snorted. “I sincerely hope, Miss Sachs, that Andy is _not_ the entirety of your given name.”

“It’s Andrea,” Andy said, somewhat confused, “but everybody calls me Andy.”

“Always order business cards under your full name, Andrea. You are a professional, are you not?” For some reason best known to Miranda, she chose to place the emphasis on the second syllable of Andy’s name, rather than the first. It sounded Italian and mysterious when Miranda said it.

Miranda obviously didn’t expect a response, since she was already unlocking the door. “I trust you have the sense not to leave until I am outside, Andrea.”

Andy nodded. She looked away guiltily as she caught the glint of gold on Miranda’s ring finger. _So we were both cheating. Wonderful._

 _“_ Don’t forget, Andrea, to read _Runway,_ ” Miranda said, as she opened the door. “You never know who might be paying attention.” And then she was gone.

 _Was that a threat?_ Andy wondered. It could have been, but from the way she said it, it sounded more like advice. Not entirely friendly advice, of course. Andy had a hard time believing that Miranda was accustomed to giving friendly advice that was not also a threat or a veiled offer of reward for good behavior.

She waited a few more minutes, just to be safe, but her brain was finally recovering from Miranda’s presence and starting to function at normal speed again. It was past eleven, she realized, and Nate might be home before she got back. She knew she probably smelled like sex. _I’ll have to get in the shower right away_ , she decided. _What on earth am I going to do about Nate?_

Andy splurged on a cab. There was no way she was taking the subway at this time of night, especially in a short skirt and smelling like sex.

Nate was still not home, thank god, so she was able to get in the shower right away, but she felt guiltier and guiltier as she imagined not telling him about her brief _encounter_ with Miranda, just pretending that nothing unusual had happened. _I’m too honest for my own good_. _I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t tell him, but how could I live in a one-bedroom apartment with him if I do tell him?_

She winced at the thought of sharing a bed with her sweet, affectionate boyfriend after cheating with Miranda. Actually, after Miranda, Nate seemed sort of boring by comparison, now that she thought about it. Anybody would. Miranda was just so…perfect. Not very nice, of course. She could be downright terrifying when she wanted to be, and Andy had a feeling that she wanted to be terrifying on a disturbingly regular basis. But she was perfect, just the same. Andy blushed as she dried her hair and pictured Miranda’s cleavage again. _Guess that college fling with Stacy wasn’t a fluke, then._ Honestly, the lesbian thing bothered her far less than the fact that she’d cheated on her boyfriend with a complete stranger, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

 _I’ll just have to move out_ , she decided. _Maybe Doug needs a roommate._ Doug would probably be sympathetic—he had said Nate was too safe for her from the beginning, but Lily would be furious. Andy was mad at herself too, but mostly because things had been going steadily downhill with Nate ever since they’d moved to New York together, and she hadn’t had the courage to say anything.

Nate hated the unpredictability of her hours at the Mirror—she frequently had to get up at a ridiculous hour of the morning to cover whatever fluff story Jake put her on, or spend Nate’s night off at a neighborhood watch or school board meeting. Sometimes they barely saw each other for days at a time, and when they did Andy was often too tired to do more than give him a sleepy kiss and collapse into bed. She tried, without success, to recall the last time they’d had sex. Or a real conversation. _God. That’s pathetic._

It was definitely time to move out.


	3. Interlude

Three months later, Andy and Doug were celebrating Doug’s minor promotion and Andy’s skimpy raise over a quiet dinner in their shared apartment. Lily was no longer speaking to either of them, but she’d shown signs of softening lately. Andy had hope that their friendship would eventually be repaired. Nate was a lost cause, though. He wasn’t quite as upset as Andy thought, hypocritically, that he should have been, but he was firm about not wanting to see her for a while.

Andy didn’t miss him as much as she thought she should have, either. She missed his cooking, and she missed joking around with him, but that was about it, really. Doug’s schedule was much more compatible with hers, and he never tried to make her feel guilty about working late. He was also a great cuddler; they spent a lot of time snuggled on the couch together that winter, watching TV together or just reading.

Andy was amused to discover that Doug had every issue of _Runway_ from the last six years arranged meticulously by date on the bookshelf next to his bed. She tried to tease him about it, but Doug was passionate in the defense of his favorite magazine.

“ _Runway_ is like the fashion Bible, Andy. You have no idea what you’re talking about. Miranda Priestly is a freaking icon. Look!” He seized the latest issue off the coffee table and began listing reasons why he admired the magazine.

Andy froze. “Who did you say, Doug? Miranda…something?”

“Miranda Priestly, editor-in-chief of American _Runway_.” Doug shook his head in disbelief at Andy’s ignorance. “Seriously, Andy? You’re in publishing, for god’s sake. How have you not heard of Miranda Priestly? She’s been _the_ fashion icon for almost twenty years!” He flipped to the editorial page and showed Andy a picture.

Andy felt numb. “Oh my god,” she said weakly. “Oh my god.” She thought she might hyperventilate.

Doug just stared. “Andy? What on earth…do you _know_ her?”

Andy took several deep breaths. “Doug, do you remember when I went to that stupid awards banquet in Billie’s place? “

Doug nodded. “How could I not?”

Andy quirked a bitter half-smile. “The woman in the bathroom…remember how she only told me her first name? And that she worked at _Runway_?”

Doug’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Andy, are you telling me that you had sex with Miranda Priestly in a hotel bathroom _and you didn’t recognize her_?”

Andy winced. “Um…yes?”

Doug seemed to have lost the power of speech. They stared at each other for at least a minute in mutual disbelief before Doug pulled himself together enough to start talking.

“Andy—I’ve never met her, obviously, but she has a reputation for being kind of…mean. You wouldn’t believe the number of people she’s blackballed, just because they pissed her off.”

Andy looked thoughtful. “Actually, I’m not surprised. She wasn’t particularly nice to me. I told you she basically ripped my entire appearance to shreds almost as soon as she saw me. She wasn’t very…gentle with me, either.”

Doug shook his head. “That’s just it, Andy. _That’s all she did._ She didn’t make you swear to secrecy on your grandmother’s grave. She didn’t get you fired and tell every other newspaper and magazine on the east coast not to hire you. She basically just told you to read _Runway_ , right?”

Andy was suitably horrified. “She can do that? She could get me fired?”

“Andy, she is the single most influential person in the entire fashion industry, and probably in the top ten for publishing. There isn’t much she couldn’t do if she really wanted to.”

“Oh,” said Andy, in a very small voice. “Doug, I was incredibly casual with her. I asked her all kinds of stupid questions and I wasn’t very…gentle with her, either.”

Doug blushed.

“Why didn’t she do something? I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know either, Andy, but I’m glad she didn’t. I guess we’ll just have to wonder.”

Andy suddenly sat straight up. “Oh shit. Oh my god, Doug, I just remembered something. Right before she left, she told me not to forget about reading _Runway_ and she told me…” Andy swallowed. “She told me I never knew who might be paying attention.”

Doug looked simultaneously impressed and stunned. “Andy,” he said slowly, “do you know what this means?”

Andy shook her head.

“Miranda Priestly is watching your career. _Miranda Priestly!_ You really must have impressed her.”

Andy blushed and stammered her way through a decidedly unconvincing denial, but she was never able to look at fashion in quite the same way again.

She soon found that she was taking more care with her appearance and noticing much more about the appearances of others. She also started reading every issue of _Runway_ as soon as it arrived. It wouldn’t do to be uninformed, after all, in the unlikely event that she ran into Miranda again. She even started reading the back issues, although she was careful to put them back on the shelf in their proper sequence before Doug got home. He got enough ammunition for teasing from her first clumsy attempts at self-beautification.

It was just plain luck that allowed Andy to be within hearing distance when Billie told Jake she had decided to quit the paper and stay home with her newborn daughter. And it was pure coincidence that Andy had worn a rather stylish new outfit that day, one of several that Doug had helped her put together for work. Billie glanced up, did a double-take at Andy’s new look, and began to smile.

“Look, Jake—you’ve already got a new style columnist waiting in the wings. You don’t need me at all.”

Jake stared. “Wow, Andy. When did this happen?” He waved a hand vaguely at her clothes.

“I, uh, started reading _Runway_ ,” Andy admitted sheepishly.

Billie looked thrilled. “This is _perfect,_ Andy. It’ll be a seamless transition. The column’s not hard at all. I’ve only been doing it for a year or so, anyway. It’s not like I’m a longtime ‘presence’ on the fashion scene. And you can always call me for advice. ” She turned to Jake. “I’ll work out my two weeks, okay? This is wonderful!” She grinned broadly at both of them and walked back to her desk.

Andy was at a loss for words, but Jake seemed to consider it a fait accompli. Before she had really grasped what was happening, he was outlining her new duties and promising her a modest raise.

 

* * *

 

The new column was incredibly hard to write, at first. Andy had very little idea what she was doing and none of the accumulated knowledge that Billie had amassed from years of reading fashion magazines and an internship at _Harper’s Bazaar_. She spent hours and hours researching for her little five hundred word column every week, and she felt like a fraud when readers praised her eye for detail or her (second-hand) knowledge of the latest trends. She thanked any available deity for Doug, Billie, and back-issues of _Runway_ on a regular basis.

The transition was so gradual she barely noticed it, but less than a year later, Andy suddenly realized that she actually _knew_ things about fashion. She couldn’t always identify outfits on sight, but she could make a shrewd guess, and she was right almost as often as she was wrong. It was disconcerting to realize that she had changed so dramatically in less than two years. And it was all Miranda’s fault.

Andy wasn’t quite sure when she had mentally transferred the blame from Billie’s shoulders to Miranda’s, but she no longer questioned it. Miranda’s responsibility for Andy’s newly acquired interest in fashion was firmly ingrained on Andy’s consciousness by now, but she found that she didn’t resent it. Miranda had somehow recognized Andy’s potential and given her a push in the right direction.

Not too long after this realization, Andy found that she had more to say about fashion than could reasonably fit in her now twice-weekly column…or in the _Mirror_ , for that matter. Its readership was not especially fashion-conscious, after all. She soon began moonlighting for a popular fashion blog. Four months later, her very first magazine submission was accepted by _Harper’s Bazaar_ (following a recommendation by a friend of Billie’s), and after that things began to snowball.

She was doing less and less of the reporting she had originally joined the _Mirror_ to do, and even what little she did was unable to hold her interest. It only made sense to focus on her new interest in fashion. And her articles were accepted on a regular basis by almost all of the women’s magazines.

It was a little scary not having a regular paycheck, but Andy was able to make the adjustment to freelance with less difficulty than she had anticipated. An excitable but competent young woman named Claire Kingsley had practically begged to be Andy’s agent, and Andy, though startled, was quick to accept. It was wonderful to be able to focus on writing again, rather than on promoting herself.

She still refused, though, despite Claire’s urging, to submit anything to _Runway_. Miranda might have semi-unwittingly gotten Andy started in her new career, but that didn’t mean she wanted to publish Andy’s articles. Andy was worried that Miranda would think she was being blackmailed if Andy submitted anything, although Miranda’s reputation had certainly weathered worse storms than could be generated by rumors of a two-year-old lesbian encounter.

Her third divorce had hit the press more or less at the same time some sort of foiled coup-attempt by Elias-Clarke chairman Irv Ravitz hit the gossip circuit. Since that time, she had been regularly escorted by a wide range of attractive single men, but, to everyone’s surprise, no fourth husband was forthcoming. Andy followed every Priestly-based rumor with interest, although she was careful to conceal the fact from everyone but Doug. Miranda was her secret obsession, for reasons that Andy very carefully did not analyze. So what if work was a flimsy excuse for her miserable dating record lately? It certainly had nothing to do with Miranda. They barely even _saw_ each other, for heaven’s sake.

She and Miranda seemed to avoid each other by unspoken consent at the few fashion-related events attended by both, and of course Miranda usually left as soon as humanly possible.

It still shocked Andy sometimes, that she was considered important enough to receive legitimate invitations to the same events as Miranda Priestly. And she wasn’t sitting against the back wall, either. Andy wasn’t important enough to be seated near Miranda, of course, but it was still nice to be recognized for her work, even if it wasn’t the heavy-hitting journalism she had once expected to be known for. She still got a small thrill every time someone escorted her past the waiting crowds to a decent seat at fashion shows.

The fashion community was somewhat incestuous at times, and almost inevitably fraught with drama, so Andy was unsurprised when rumors began circulating about a supposed rift between her and Miranda. Apparently someone had noticed that Andy had been published in every major women’s fashion magazine…except _Runway_. Their careful avoidance at public events had only bolstered the rumors, but since there was no actual evidence of a falling-out, the speculation remained relatively low-key.


	4. The Reunion

_Present Day_

Claire spent several moments digesting Andy’s story in complete (and uncharacteristic) silence, and then the questions began.

“So, basically, you heard her speak for five minutes, she called you a walking fashion disaster, and you had sex in a hotel bathroom. That’s the entirety of your interactions with Miranda Priestly?”

“Other than avoiding each other at public events, yes.”

“And yet she was the main inspiration for you to start taking an interest in fashion? You changed careers based on thirty minutes in a hotel bathroom? I’m not saying it was a bad move, obviously, but I just don’t understand.”

Andy sighed. “Claire, some days I don’t really understand myself. It’s just…she’s such an amazing person. She has this presence, this aura, that just makes you want to throw yourself at her feet and do whatever she says. And I think I was already getting disillusioned with the world of newspaper journalism, I just hadn’t admitted it yet.”

“Andy, you never cease to amaze me.” There was a short pause. “At any rate, the main thing to think about now is damage control. Do you really think she’ll see it as a blackmail attempt?”

“With Miranda? Who knows? What I do know is that she’s probably going to interpret it as me sending a message of some sort; I’m just not sure what message she’ll see. It could blow over really fast, especially if she decides to ask me about it directly, but she’s so used to turning up nefarious plots under every rock that she may blow it way out of proportion. I wish I could just call her, but it doesn’t seem like the sort of thing you should bring up while someone is at work.”

Claire had to agree that it didn’t. “We may just have to wait and see, then. It’s not guaranteed that she will even be upset, you know. It’s been, what, almost five years now? If you were going to take advantage, you would have done it a long time ago, and I’m sure she knows that.”

“Maybe so,” Andy said, “but then again, maybe not. God, Claire, I don’t know. Do you have any events scheduled for me this week?”

“Andy, I send them to your Blackberry months in advance. And text you with reminders. Don’t you ever check that thing?”

“Of course I do. I just like to hear the latest dirt directly from you before I go offending all those stupid feuding socialites again.”

Claire laughed. “Right. Well, it’s a pretty light week, but you do have a holiday banquet at the Waldorf on Friday. Wear something warm…I hear the ballroom is drafty.”

Dead silence. “How on earth did I get invited to an event at the Waldorf?”

“Actually, Andy, I’m not entirely sure. The e-mail was in my inbox this morning, and I called them right away. It’s definitely legit, but they were very close-lipped about why it came so late. I got the feeling it was a last-minute change.”

Andy was instantly suspicious. “Claire, you don’t think Miranda might have…called in a favor, do you? So we could talk at the banquet?”

“Andy, I love you, but you really jump to some outlandish conclusions sometimes. What makes you think Miranda had anything to do with it?”

Andy snorted. “Oh, I don’t know, only the fact that it happened _the morning after my article was accepted_. Come on, Claire. You know those invitations had to have gone out at least a month ago. Who else can you think of with the kind of pull to force a change at the last minute like that? At the freaking _Waldorf_.”

“Well, I still think you’re imagining things, but you’ll find out soon enough. Don’t forget to take a few pictures for me.”

Andy assured her that she would and hung up, already planning her outfit for Friday. At least she had a few days left to pull it together. It would need to be perfect, after all, if she was finally going to face Miranda again.

 

* * *

 

 

Andy strode as quickly as possible from the sidewalk to the intimidating entrance of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. It was exceptionally cold out, and her wrap, while elegant, was not a terribly efficient source of insulation. She handed it off to the rigidly correct cloakroom attendant and surreptitiously rubbed her arms; her rather thin Vera Wang gown was gorgeous, but the Waldorf was as chilly as Claire had said.

The cocktail hour passed with surprising speed. Andy was relieved to see that she knew at least a few of the other guests. She was enjoying a very amusing conversation about jeggings with Glenda Bailey when a stir of interest from near the entrance grabbed her attention. The crowd parted, as if by magic, and revealed the stunning black-clad form of Miranda Priestly. And she was looking straight at Andy.

Andy swallowed, attempting to assume an outward appearance of calm, and unconsciously smoothed her dress. It was a little daring, she knew, and uncharacteristically bright, but she had been trying to step out of her comfort zone lately, and she had someone to impress, after all.

Miranda was gliding purposefully in her direction, and the other guests, sensing a confrontation of some kind, were careful to stay out of her path, although Andy noticed many of them seemed to be following at a discreet distance.

Andy waited nervously as Miranda drew closer, hoping desperately that she was not about to be humiliated in front of a room full of several hundred of New York’s best and brightest.

To Andy’s vast relief, Miranda did not look angry. In fact, she was smiling a little, and she gave an assessing tilt of her head as they came within speaking distance.

“Andrea,” she greeted, looking genuinely happy, “how delightful to see you again.” And she actually leaned forward to exchange an air-kiss with an astonished Andy. “Lovely,” she murmured in Andy’s ear, as Andy stared straight ahead in shock. “A daring fashion choice at last.”

Andy shook off her temporary paralysis, and gave Miranda her most charming smile. “Miranda! You look magnificent, as always. Vintage Valentino, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Miranda said, looking undeniably pleased. “I was very happy to receive your submission, of course.” She gave Andy a slightly curious glance. “You’ve built yourself quite a reputation over the past few years, haven’t you?”

The rest of the crowd, disappointed by the lack of fireworks, was slowly drifting off, leaving the two of them in a fairly deserted bubble on one side of the ballroom.

“Well,” Andy said, “I started reading _Runway_. After that, everything just seemed to fall into place. I’ve been very lucky.” She dared a quick glance at Miranda’s face. The rest of the crowd was in a position to see only the bored but correct posture, but Andy thought she caught a glint of amusement in Miranda’s eyes.

“Lucky.” Miranda said, slowly, her eyes never leaving Andy’s. “Lucky, yes, but also talented. Not many writers have made such an impact on the industry in such a short time.”

“I don’t like to do less than my best,” Andy said, staring right back. “All I needed was the proper…motivation.”

Was that a hint of pink she saw on Miranda’s cheeks? Andy wasn’t sure, but she decided to believe that it was. She was going to need every bit of confidence she could muster for the next part of the conversation.

“Miranda, why am I here?”

Miranda gave her a calculating look. “You know why you are here, Andrea. I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to ask you why you finally submitted an article, and especially why you spent so many years avoiding me.”

Andy blushed and turned her head slightly. “I didn’t want to seem presumptuous,” she said haltingly. “I didn’t want you to think that I was trying to…to take advantage in any way.”

Miranda made what might have been a slight noise of encouragement in the back of her throat and waited for Andy to continue.

“Actually,” Andy admitted, “I didn’t submit the article at all. My agent did it without talking to me first, and by the time I found out, it had already been accepted.”

Miranda looked both thoughtful and amused. “I see. Well, I suppose we’ll have a lot to talk about over dinner then, won’t we?”

Andy gaped. “Dinner? But I’m not…”

“Andrea,” Miranda said, “surely you have realized that there was a reason you received your invitation the day after the submission of your article.”

Andy grinned ruefully. “I did, actually. I told Claire so, but she wouldn’t believe me. I suppose if you can get me invited the week of the event, changing the seating plan at the last minute wouldn’t be that hard.”

“Precisely so.” Miranda smiled and waved a hand in the direction of the dining room. “Shall we?”

Andy suddenly noticed that the ballroom had emptied around them, and that there was no escort waiting for Miranda. They were nearly alone in the huge space, aside from a nervous-looking waiter and an even more nervous-looking young woman who had “frazzled assistant” written all over her.

Andy gulped, but she dutifully accompanied Miranda to one of the central tables in the cavernous and magnificent dining room.

The sumptuous meal that followed was perhaps the most uncomfortable of Andy’s life. The other eight guests at the table, all of whom were at least ten years Andy’s senior, were desperately curious about the apparent friendship between Miranda and a young writer she had supposedly never spoken to before. They were too wary of Miranda to say anything, but several of them made it obvious in small ways that Andy did _not_ belong at their table.

Miranda, to Andy’s considerable surprise, proceeded to ignore them for the rest of the evening, and directed all of her comments to Andy and the rather fierce-looking older woman on Andy’s other side. She leaned forward at one point to explain something about a recent photo shoot, and Andy caught a whiff of her distinctive perfume. _I shouldn’t remember it_ , Andy thought, _especially after all this time, but she smells amazing._

As the meal progressed, Andy noticed that Miranda seemed to be touching her a lot. Not suggestively, not at all—innocent, glancing touches on her wrist or her shoulder, mostly, but Andy felt the resulting tingles for several minutes after each one. She tried valiantly to maintain a calm façade, but she was getting embarrassingly aroused, and it was very hard not to squirm when Miranda “accidentally” grazed the back of her neck while gesturing at a waiter. She shivered involuntarily and was horrified to notice goose bumps popping up all over her arms.

“Andrea,” Miranda asked solicitously, “are you cold?”

Outwardly, she was the picture of thoughtfulness, but Andy could see her eyes twinkling mischievously, and she knew she was in for an eventful night.

“I’m fine, Miranda,” she assured her, as she gave a gentle warning nudge with the toe of one shoe. She was _not_ going to just sit here and let Miranda do whatever she wanted, debilitating crush or no.

Miranda narrowed her eyes slightly, but said nothing.

Andy was starting to feel a little more in control of herself after the bulk of the main course went by without incident. Just as she was congratulating herself on a successful defensive maneuver, she felt something soft and silky push aside her dress and stroke delicately down her lower leg. She froze momentarily, scarcely able to believe that Miranda Priestly was playing footsy with her in the middle of a holiday banquet at the Waldorf-Astoria, but the very innocence of Miranda’s expression convinced her. When had Miranda ever tried to look innocent?

_Well,_ Andy thought, _two people can play that game_ , and she took off her shoes and played footsy right back, immensely grateful for the concealing length of the tablecloth _._ The next hour was spent in an escalating exchange of hidden caresses and casual touches, even as they conversed politely about upcoming shows and the tedious ubiquity of Uggs for the benefit of their bemused dinner companions.

Andy had a sinking suspicion that she was beginning to look flushed. It was entirely unfair that Miranda could turn her on so thoroughly without coming close to any erogenous zones or even kissing her. She felt completely helpless, trapped by propriety and the presence of so many strangers, but she found that, in some strange way, the public setting served to increase her arousal. She was actually growing increasingly worried that there would be a visible wet spot on the back of her dress; the lacy scrap of black fabric she had chosen to wear underneath her dress would hardly withstand a lot of moisture. The urge to squeeze her thighs together was almost overwhelming.

Miranda, on the other hand, was the picture of grace and dignity, but Andy thought she detected a slight irregularity in her breathing whenever Andy managed to touch her, and she was content with that. Well, not content, really, but resigned to waiting for dinner to be over. There would not be many speeches, thank god.

It suddenly occurred to Andy that she was assuming something was going to take place after dinner was over, that they were going to find an empty room somewhere and have sex, that maybe they would take things a little slower this time around. That maybe they would stay in touch, afterwards. She even found herself entertaining wildly unlikely fantasies involving long weekends in quiet bed-and-breakfasts, complete with romantic dinners by candlelight and expensive champagne. Perhaps that was not the case, though. Perhaps Miranda was just toying with her—she enjoyed wielding power more than anything, didn’t she? Maybe the sight of a flushed, squirming Andy was all she wanted out of this incredibly confusing evening.

Andy paled at the thought, and immediately put her shoes back on. _I should have known_ , she thought bitterly. _I should have known she wouldn’t be interested in me as an equal. Why would she be, when she could have anyone she wanted? God, I feel so stupid._ She was horrified to feel tears forming. _I have to get out of here, before I embarrass myself any further._

Dessert was almost over, so it wouldn’t be as rude as it could have been. Andy felt fairly certain that she would generate a fair amount of negative gossip by leaving so early, but she just couldn’t bring herself to care. She rose, only slightly unsteady on her feet, and, pleading exhaustion, bid her surprised dinner companions goodnight in as steady and courteous a voice as she could manage. She had just turned to leave, praying silently for the strength to hold back the tears until she was safely outside, when Miranda suddenly stood and put a restraining hand on her arm.

“Andrea,” she said, “before you leave, I need to discuss your article with you. There are a few changes I’d like you to make.”

Andy stared at her, bewildered. She had already made the requested changes and submitted them at least three days earlier. She could only guess that Miranda wanted to talk to her about something else, and although she was desperate to make her escape, she could hardly refuse in front of so many people.

“Of course, Miranda,” she said, in a voice that only shook slightly, and stood numbly while Miranda said her farewells to the other guests at their table and to their host.

Andy followed Miranda silently down a maze of magnificent but empty hallways and, to her surprise, up a few flights of stairs before they cautiously entered another deserted hallway and stopped outside a beautiful set of double doors. Miranda unlocked one and stepped inside, motioning impatiently for Andy to do the same.

Stressed out, confused, and still on the verge of tears, Andy was stunned breathless when Miranda shut the door and her cool, dispassionate expression changed instantly to the fierce, hungry smile she remembered so well from the bathroom four years ago.

“That was very well-acted,” she said, as she set down her own bag and removed Andy’s from her nerveless fingers. “I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed one of these dinners so much.”

Andy stared, entranced, as Miranda took off her accessories, piece by piece, and put them away. She then removed her gown and hung it carefully, followed by her bra, stockings, and underwear—all without a trace of self-consciousness. Her body was just as magnificent as Andy remembered, and she moved so gracefully.

She headed for a doorway which Andy assumed led to the bedroom, but she stopped a few steps away and turned, frowning when she saw that Andy had yet to move from her spot by the door.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, clearly trying to be patient.

“I don’t know,” Andy said, truthfully. “Um, not to be naïve, but…what is this? Is it just sex? Is it a power-play of some kind? Do you want a relationship? I don’t understand you at all. I’ve barely even seen you in over four years, and suddenly we’re playing footsy under the table at a fancy holiday banquet and getting ready to have sex in your hotel suite, and I don’t know _why!_ ” Andy was almost shouting by the time she reached the end of her passionate speech, and she could feel the tears beginning to escape. She dashed them away impatiently and turned her head, certain that she must look terrible. She was startled to hear approaching footsteps, and then to feel a gentle hand turning her head back in Miranda’s direction.

“Goodness, Andrea. I had no idea. You weren’t entirely acting, were you?”

Andy shook her head.

“But still you followed me,” Miranda pointed out. “You still came, even when you saw that we were coming to a hotel room. And I was not the only one playing ‘footsy’ under the table.”

Andy blushed.

“I will be honest with you, Andrea. I am not entirely sure what I want. You are a good writer and a very accomplished woman for your age. You are also genuinely kind. I cannot tell you how unusual that is among the people in this industry. Even our short time together four years ago was enough to show me that you could be something special, and I have watched you growing into your potential ever since, waiting for you to approach me, to ask me for a favor, to apply at _Runway_. And I respected you even more, because you did not do any of those things.

“As for this,” she indicated the bedroom with a wave of her hand, “well, it’s fairly obvious that we share some sort of…chemistry. I will not make you false promises, Andrea. I will not tell you that a relationship between us would be easy. It would not. And I can assure you, as could my teenage daughters, that I am not an easy person to care for. I am impatient and controlling, and I spend far too much time at work. I know these things about myself. But I think this…remarkable attraction we seem to have is worth exploring. Don’t you?” She looked appealingly into Andy’s eyes.

Andy could only laugh helplessly. _All that worry for nothing,_ she thought. _This woman is amazing._ “Yes,” she said, when she had herself back under control. “Yes, I do.” And she leaned down and kissed Miranda with all the power of four and a half years of confused, pent-up longing.

Miranda tasted wonderful—like wine and chocolate—and Andy let out a moan before she could stop herself. Miranda’s hands tangled their way into Andy’s hair and she pulled their mouths together more firmly, arching into Andy’s eager embrace.

They kissed for several minutes before Miranda took a reluctant step backward, severing the contact. There was a protest already forming on Andy’s lips, but Miranda forestalled her. “Andrea,” she said, panting slightly. “You are entirely overdressed for this occasion. For heaven’s sake, take off that ridiculous dress.”

Andy was almost offended, but then she caught the unmistakable twinkle in Miranda’s eye and suddenly remembered. She grinned. “I thought you’d never ask,” she said happily, and took off her dress.


End file.
